The forecast called for rain, 100% chance, but outside my window was a blue chalkboard of a sky, wiped clean. We'd had a picnic planned, but canceled. I'd never heard anything predicted with such certainty; I've watched downpours listening to reports of the likelihood of rain, the possibility. It looked, felt, like the first or last days of a long summer. The beginning or end. I watched out my window, unsure what outcome was more likely, unsure what outcome I was hoping for.

I pulled my blinds, got in my car, drove. I wanted the expanse of sky to open up above me like the road below. I wanted to find that moment the weather changed, where forever finally ended. I drove, forgot what I was looking for.

I ride my bike past four or five different landscaping trucks on my daily five-mile jaunt. Some are emblazoned with terms involving plant life, others advertise their abilities, choosing words like "ultimate" as their bikini wearing bitch. The trucks, always accompanied by crews of men, usually white, sometimes Mexican, some, career waitresses pitied by the seventeen-year-olds who target their clientele with photocopied flyers designed in Microsoft Word. On average, they are captivated by my sweaty bouncing breasts in a seven-dollar cotton camisole from Kohl's department store with a built in bra, and a pair of black Adidas soccer shorts my mom bought me when I was thirteen, size medium. That's what does it for partially dehydrated males with middle-aged wives, and their American Pie watching teenage counterparts. I am their pedaling, sans-mole, Cindy Crawford. She isn't on the cover of US Weekly, but the marketing reps from Art Van Furniture are certain her selling ability includes couches.

I race up inclines, swerving for the squirrels that run in front of moving vehicles of any speed, even 10 mph, even sex on wheels. People wave at me, I don't wave back.

Sarah Smarch is a Diet Coke drinker and more than occasional cookie eater who edits other people's work more than writing her own. She will write the next great American novel or become an English teacher, whichever comes first.

The room all dark, shades drawn against the sun, the old air conditioner on full blast humming in the window. Dad's so sick, lying in bed under that huge gold-colored quilt. White as death with blood-red eyes, like a vampire or a dope fiend. The asthma and hay fever are killing him. He can't survive here with the spring pollen bursting like spores that invade your lungs and your soul. Has to go up north and stay with my aunt. All summer long I'm here all alone. Just me and the grandparents. Nothing means anything, just killing time day after meaningless day. Without a mom, you get so close to your dad, your pal, your whole world sort of. Making things right like no one else can. One Saturday morning I'm up early, before everyone else. Down in the kitchen, all quiet and dark. And...he's there. His eyes shining and smiling at me. "Daddy!" I run and jump into his arms.

Mikael Covey lives in Dakota with his five-year old girl. Mike's goal is to change the world through writing. His blog is Literary Monthly, other published works are here.

She forgets the amazing triumphant beautiful joy as she waits for the children to get out of school. She comes home and the husband moans at her bones about the bills. He complains so much, soon he could die of cancer.

The moon rises like a knife. The surreal and in-depth meaning of eyelids opening to the stars, changes the clutching grasp of her fight over money. There seems no way out and that is the easy way.

All of a sudden a knock on the door, she opens the door, it is everyone's favorite musical cowboy Jim James and he sings with a sparkle in his teeth, "love dawg, can't you see, you will never have to fight with me."

Justin Blackburn, author of Gifted Disabilities and It's Hard To Get There When You Are Already There both available on amazon.com. Justin Blackburn believes in love and enjoys emotions.

"I know why you are calling," said the man in Chicago. "You want money," he said in a sarcastic tone. Unable to get a word in, the man in Chicago said, "I have not seen my son in three years. I don't know where he is." I explain to the man in Chicago that I know where his son is. That is the reason I am calling. I try to explain to the man that his son is hospitalized in a mental health ward. I am calling to inform him how his son is doing and who he could talk to if he ever wanted to know how his son was doing. The man from Chicago cut in again, repeating everything he said before, "I know why you are calling. You want money. I have not seen my son in three years. I don't know where he is." Exasperated, I want to chuckle. I told the man from Chicago, "You don't seem to understand what I am trying to tell you. I will hang up now. Goodbye." I thought to myself, Does madness run in this family? The man in Chicago claimed he was the father of the young man I called about. Perhaps the family is so burned out, they probably did not want to know anything about the young man in the hospital. I figured my first thought was probably the right one and the one person that answered the phone was the only one who shared the young man's illness or I could be wrong.

"Yankee Doodle" started to play, but still the little bastards waited, hiding in bushes, behind sheds, around the corners of houses. They were already sweating, anticipation the only exercise they'd gotten in preparation for this moment.

Finally they charged, their fat little bodies crossing the street, heaving at the sides of the ice cream truck. Moments later, they'd tipped it over and raided its contents. For the first time, the overweight children of the subdivision tasted success born out of teamwork— It tasted like ice cream sandwiches, like flag-colored popsicles dripping from their double chins, and man, was it good.

Matt Bell's writing has appeared in many different publications, including magazines such as Hobart, Barrelhouse, Caketrain, and McSweeney's Internet Tendency. He can be found on the web at www.mdbell.com

To The Short Thick Student With Big Tits And Auburn Hair That Sits Two Rows In Front Of My Desk In My 11:00 AM History Class

barry graham

You might have thought I was looking at your tits but I wasn't. There were red and black checkers on your backpack beside your feet on the floor. I noticed them. I looked at your white shoes with black stripes down both sides, and thought about taking them off and putting your toes in my mouth one by one. I thought about me sucking, then chewing on your toenails, and your hips and ass squirming around in your seat. I ran my tongue up the back of your calf. I licked the soft crevice behind your knee until your thighs were covered in goose bumps. I licked it again. I thought about you lifting your leg and me going up, then up. I thought about cutting open an orange pixie stick and dumping it into your belly button and slurping the sugar back into my mouth and letting it stick to my teeth, and you arching your back into your chair and me going up, then up. You were wearing a low cut black blouse and you bent to get a pen from the backpack. The top of your chest was tan and bumpy like your neck and cheeks. I looked at your low cut black blouse, then heard someone say that history made sense because once something's done then it's done and there ain't a fucking thing anyone can do but talk about it. I heard what he said, considered its implications. I was somewhere else, somewhere ancient, being stoned to death alongside Montezuma. You lifted your head from underneath the desk, pen in hand, and looked into my eyes, watching me watch you. You looked down into your low cut black blouse, pulled the collar up, then zipped your black hooded sweatshirt. You might have thought I was looking at your tits but I wasn't.

With talk of rolled out rugbeaten summer days, climbing red worn bed ladders, we grew into our shoes in a room at the top of those old stairs. The house over the bridge. It shot up proud behind the concor trees beside the roads that rounded the sheds and tall garden walls. Our Mum hadn't grown up here, but miles away in the city. We came, my brother and I, so she could stand still awhile, I guess.

Summers saw their way to Autumns then the Winters came; rolling up cold over the bridge to hold our house. All the same - one hundred years of bricks - pushed into place and set - sure kept the rooms together and warm, though the gates in the fields froze. A world of white balloon clouds bursting over us. Then bright we warmed and spring was coming again soon. We were in the house over the bridge until the very day we moved away. Singing songs in a loaded car, I learned what family was for and remade my memories of the homes we'd had.

Edward was in the foyer with a bottle of wine. Almost freezing outside but he wore denim shorts. His thin knees looked vulnerable. His chicken neck stuck out aggressively. He said loudly, "I'm impotent, who are you?"

I'd already drunk too much; my name eluded me. Edward scowled and grumbled loudly. "Don't want to go to bed. Be all right if I wasn't on my own. No hot water in this fucking hotel." I saw the receptionist's head twitch in our direction.

I stood up, fell down. Edward continued talking. About the history of the titled families of Britain.

"Do you want to sleep in my room?" Edward interrupted himself. "Don't worry, I'm impotent," he spat in the direction of the receptionist. "Chemo," he said airily. "Flat as a pancake."

He was impotent. I wanted to prove otherwise, stop the flow of words. Nothing worked. I woke at five. Edward was still talking. He said there were funny noises in the room. Bleeps. My head sang. I looked at my phone. Michele. Had been waiting for me outside the apartment. I strode home through the dawn. Michele was gone of course.

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